


i'll be the blood (if you'll be the bones)

by Kirjavi



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Post-TLJ, gross space trash men find something resembling love i guess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-08-22 06:43:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16592822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kirjavi/pseuds/Kirjavi
Summary: His day starts in much the same way as it has been starting for the past week: a blistering hangover, two painkillers washed down by the metallic-tasting water common to all starships, and a methodical pressing and starching of his uniform.“I am General Hux of the First Order,” he tells his red-eyed reflection sternly, “and I will not be intimidated by some overgrown man-brat with greasy hair.”His reflection does not have the same confidence his voice has, but he fastens the greatcoat and leaves his quarters anyways.The First Order is crumbling around them and General Armitage Hux is determined to make the best of a terrible situation. A black-draped loose cannon of a man, however, is determined to make a bad situation worse.





	i'll be the blood (if you'll be the bones)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [twistedsardonic (sfvamp)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sfvamp/gifts).



> This fic stemmed from a discussion with my lovely FtH bidder @twistedsardonic about fix-its for the disaster that was TLJ and grew into this monstrosity. I hope it was worth the wait because homegirl loves uploading things three days before the deadline! This should be at most three chapters total, but these two have a penchant for taking a plot and running with it.
> 
> Title from "Wolves Without Teeth" by Of Monsters and Men

General Armitage Hux, the Starkiller, commander of the First Order and bastard son of the illustrious Brendol Hux, has gone through three bottles of fine Corellian whiskey in the past week alone.

Believe it or not, that was the lower end of the estimate.

Alone in his quarters at the abominable hour of 0200, with the lights dimmed to a dusky twenty percent, there is no bartending droid to cut him off when its paltry programming deems him too close to alcohol poisoning, no underling officers to pretend to avoid his gaze. Alone in his quarters, it is just him, a bottle, and his impending demotion staring him in the face.

Hux sighs and slams back another few fingers of whiskey. When Snoke was around, Ren was easy enough to manage, despite the occasional destruction of a console or droid. Now, though, with Snoke a withering corpse floating in space and Ren holding the title of Supreme Leader ( _instead of him_ , his drunken subconscious hisses) he’s become outright unstable. He paces through the halls of the _Finalizer_ like a madman, twitching at any sudden movements and slowly but surely draining the First Order of any sort of credibility whatsoever.

Stars, he wants his ship back. The _Finalizer_ is the first ship he’s ever had full command of and he knows every bit of that ship, how she runs and how to make her run smoother. A beauty of a battlecruiser, and now she’s under Ren’s control, who couldn’t possibly know how her engines hum, how each and every part of her works to create a glorious machine.

New reports come in almost hourly, auto-directed to his personal datapad, ranging from ongoing statuses of planetary takeovers to political negotiations for supplies and support all the way to simple comms about fuel supplies and ship commands. Now, barely a month after the rise of the new Supreme Leader, the reports have been more and more negative.

_Eredenn Prime has agreed to our demands, including more military support, but demands fair trade and the protection of merchant ships. . ._

_Fuel supplies are running dangerously low after expending artillery power. . ._

Finalizer _sector 47-9B requires immediate maintenance after another outburst, this one striking dangerously close to a series of power cells. . ._

He lets the datapad buzz and drains the glass. These are Ren’s problems now (some more directly his fault than others). He’s sure he can figure them out by himself.

Hux kills the lights, kicks off his boots, and falls headlong into sleep.

* * *

His day starts in much the same way as it has been starting for the past week: a blistering hangover, two painkillers washed down by the metallic-tasting water common to all starships, and a methodical pressing and starching of his uniform.

_We aren’t like the other Old Empire families, Armitage_ , the echo of his father says over his shoulder. _We don’t rely on Old Order money to make our name. We aren’t kriffing stupid, boy, we are soldiers and we wear our uniforms and we work and we run the universe._

He pays special attention to the strict folds and creases of the officer uniform and puts it on while it’s still hot from the iron, the damp heat of the clothes clearing the rest of the sleep from his head. Uniform prepared, he tucks a blaster pistol in the holster at the small of his back, slips a mono-molecular dagger into the custom-made sheath in his sleeves, and swings his greatcoat over his shoulders. It settles over him with a comforting, intimidating weight and he straightens his shoulders.

“I am General Hux of the First Order,” he tells his red-eyed reflection sternly, “and I will not be intimidated by some overgrown man-brat with greasy hair.”

His reflection does not have the same confidence his voice has, but he fastens the greatcoat and leaves his quarters anyways.

The moment he reaches the command bridge, Mitaka assails him, datapad in hand and eyes far too frantic for this hour of the morning. Before he can say a single word Hux snaps, “Brief me” and begins his usual rounds of the ship.

He hurries to catch up to him and begins rattling off the day’s catastrophes. “Sector 47-9B is still dark, of course, but you’ve read the comm, no doubt. Our mechanics expect to have it running again in a minimum of two cycles if repair work holds steady. Fuel supplies are running alarmingly low and maintenance suggests stopping at port in at most a week if the ship’s hypermatter-annihilation core is to function at optimal capacity. The military coup we’re backing in Lothal has hit a hitch; we’re suspecting assistance from the Resistance or at the very least supporters of the defunct Galactic Senate, but at the moment we can’t spare a taskforce to eliminate any possible suspects. However, if we do manage to secure the planet, we will secure the source of one of the major sources of starfighter tech, so if possible I would advise–”

“Why no taskforce?”

Mitaka stumbles over his words but recovers admirably. “Sir?”

“We can’t spare an espionage taskforce to cover Lothal? What happened to the ES division?” Even from the bridge he can see about six different things going wrong on the terminals below and the urge to micromanage every last detail hits him like a rathtar let loose.

“Well–ah–about that–” Mitaka stammers.

Hux raises an eyebrow as if it were a middle finger. “What did he do.” His voice was as flat as possible while still conveying the fact that yes, he would in fact love to hear what happened while he took his rest shift.

“All espionage and intel taskforces are relocated to searching for the Jedi girl and the Resistance,” Mitaka says, cringing slightly. “The only exceptions were the ES taskforces previously on call on other planets.”

“Really _._ ” Hux resumes pacing along the command bridge. The only reason he is not outright screaming out of frustration is the fact that it would put a dent in his image, and it certainly doesn’t need any more after he got bodily thrown into a wall. “And did our Supreme Leader provide evidence for this brilliant decision?”

Mitaka stares at his datapad. “No, sir.”

Hux relents and slows his pace. Mitaka is a good man, if spineless at times, and there was a reason he had risen to the rank of lieutenant so quickly. “Do you know where he is at the moment?” he asks in a moderately more controlled tone of voice.

“I believe he’s in conferences right now, sir, being briefed on the ship’s status.” Mitaka has a white-knuckled grip on the datapad. “He said–” The poor man gulps near-audibly. “He said, and these are his words, not mine, sir– ‘if that ginger-haired son of a nerf-herder wants to snip at me again, tell him he can shove his opinions up his pale ass.’”

“ _Really_.” One single scream couldn’t hurt, truly. He halts abruptly and Mitaka comes narrowly close to running into him. “You and Lieutenant Dax are in charge until I get back.”

“Sir?”

“You heard me.”

“Yes, but–”

Hux performs a parade-perfect about-face and begins marching towards the elevator. “The Supreme Leader and I are long-due for a meeting.”

As the elevator door closes behind him, Mitaka’s face goes pale and he looks beseechingly at Lieutenant Dax for help. Dax stands up and opens his mouth, then closes it again and shakes his head. “He’s kriffing insane,” Dax mutters.

“Why does he do this?” Mitaka asks frantically in a near-whisper. “It’s almost like he wants to start a fight! It’s a miracle he hasn’t been killed!”

Dax sighs and begins to climb the sleek black stairs connecting the terminal floor and the command bridge. “Ren won’t kill him,” he says wearily once he’s reached the top. His hat is slightly askew and he looks far too worn down for this early in his shift. “Hux is too valuable– even Snoke kept him around.”

“It won’t keep Ren from tossing him around like a rag doll,” Mitaka frets.

“No,” Dax says, squinting at the stars that stretch in front of the observation window. “I’ve a feeling Hux can handle himself just fine.”

* * *

Hux spends the ride up to the conference floor fuming. Losing control of his ship, he can manage, albeit unwillingly. Being manhandled around by the mysterious Force, fine, yes, he can take it. But what he _cannot_ under any circumstances abide is sheer, blatant inefficiency.

So much of the current problems the First Order is facing can be solved with a little–just a _little_ –common sense. The fuel issue? Dock at the next available port, refuel enough to power the reactor core and then some, and avoid any unnecessary energy expenses (for example, firing exorbitant amounts of fuel at your estranged family member in what is _clearly_ a trap). The difficulties with Lothal’s coup? Solved easily enough with the dispatch of an ES taskforce ( _if they had one_ ), and if not, then a show of force would be more than sufficient, as any fool knows Lothal’s military is about as intimidating as a baby loth-cat.

It’s not that he’s unafraid of Kylo Ren. He possesses a healthy amount of caution whenever he has the misfortune of interacting with him, as anyone would around such a loose cannon, but as of now, the sheer rage he feels has the convenient side effect of blotting out anything but irritation.

The elevator _dings_ in a tone so perky it’s almost insulting. He leaves the elevator and follows the sound of emotional instability.

He has good ears, it seems, because as he nears conference room 2B, the distinct crackling sound of a lightsaber shearing through durasteel sizzling through the air. He barely refrains from kicking down the door and instead settles for slamming his passcard against the sensor, storming into the room the moment it opens.

He is met with the unpleasant, if not unexpected, sight of Ren manhandling some poor petty officer and pinning him up against the mangled wall. The saber is close enough to his face for the smell of crisped hair to permeate the air, mingling with that of overheated durasteel. Ren whips his head around and looks at him with the angry-defiant-guilty look of a dog caught halfway through mauling a shoe. “ _What,_ ” he snarls.

“I thought you grew out of the ‘manhandling my crew’ phase when you made yourself Supreme Leader,” Hux snaps. A distant part of his brain realizes that antagonizing an unstable Force user is not the smartest idea (that part of his brain, coincidently, sounds a lot like Brendol Hux), but he’s grown very good at tuning it out.

Ren drops the officer like a plaything and storms over to him, attempting to tower over him in a move that most likely cows people shorter than him, but to Hux just reinforces his appearance as an overlong, pretentious crow. The officer stumbles to his feet, coughing, and takes a shaky seat at the other side of the conference table, rubbing his neck. Both Hux and Ren ignore him.

“ _Your_ crew?” Ren seethes at him. “I think you’ll find that _I’m_ Supreme Leader of the First Order, not some scrawny toy soldier with a spacer’s tan.”

“Your insults are childish, as is, apparently, your complete inexperience commanding anything that isn’t your cultish group of followers,” Hux seethes right back at him. “Might I have a word? Or are you too busy establishing a reputation as a madman and a fool?” 

Ren glowers at him and for a mad moment Hux thinks that maybe, just maybe, this is the straw that tips the camel’s back, but then he sneers at him and stomps out of the room. Hux raises an eyebrow at the cowed group of officials conveniently sitting in a corner of the table far away from where he and Ren were. “Well?” he snaps. “Get back to work.”

Exposed wires spit sparks from the gash melted into the wall and sizzle on the floor. The officer who had Ren’s hands around his neck a few moments ago looks nothing short of shell- shocked and the rest of them are looking at Hux as if he’d singlehandedly fought off a wampa, which he supposes is fair in a more literal sense. 

“What?” he says sharply.

Everyone studiously avoids his gaze. He rolls his eyes and goes to talk to Ren.

He finds him glaring moodily out of one of the observation windows like some character out of a holonovela. As he approaches, Ren tilts his head towards him but doesn’t deign to turn around. “You wanted a word?” he drawls obnoxiously.

Ever since the death of Snoke, Ren has been taking more and more to walking about the _Finalizer_ without his mask. He acts much the same, however, meaning that whatever emotion crosses his mind crosses his face simultaneously. Ren is alarmingly easy to read.

The cold starlight slides over a strong nose and scattered moles, dipping to trace a long, narrow scar.

Hux decides to dive right in.

“Do you know what you’re doing?”

Ren’s nostrils flare.

Hux keeps going. “I genuinely want to know, Ren. What are you doing? Do you have any idea how any of this works? I actually, honestly want to know what your plans are for the First Order. Please. Enlighten me.”

“I have plans!” Ren says defensively. Stars, he’s such a child. “I know what I’m doing!”

“Do you?” Hux hisses, moving closer to him. “Because all I see is our military strength crumbling, the ship falling to pieces because _someone_ can’t handle his emotions, and the Resistance gaining in power. Not to mention the fact that you relocated all of our intelligence and espionage taskforces to finding some scavenger from Jakku? We were so close to crushing the Resistance, and you let them slip out of our fingertips! We could be reforming entire systems now if it weren’t for you!”

Ren finally whips around to face him and his eyes are a frenzy of panic and anger. “Do you know what Snoke called you? I asked him why he would keep around a general who’s let his target get away time after time, and do you know what he said?”

Hux curls his upper lip. “What.” He doesn’t know why he’s even playing along with this– as if he cares what a long-dead figurehead thought of him.

He looms over him again. “He called you a rabid cur,” Ren breathes, as if he is relishing sharing this information. “He called you a rabid cur and a useful tool, and that is why he allowed you to rise through the ranks.”

Hux bares his teeth. If he calls him a dog, so be it. “More fool him, then,” he snarls. “Who’s alive and who’s dead?”

Ren does not respond to that, which Hux takes as a sign of victory.

“You need me,” he says. “I’m the only one on this ship who knows inside and out how the First Order works. Without me, the Order crumbles, and so will you.”

“I don’t need you,” Ren growls, and Hux thinks delightedly, _Oh, I’ve struck a nerve_. “I didn’t need Skywalker, I didn’t need Snoke, and I don’t need you.”

“Your campaign on Lothal seems to suggest otherwise.” Hux grins, tasting blood. “As does the political negotiations on Eredenn Prime, the _Finalizer_ fuel crisis, the Resistance escape, the–”

Ren grabs the lapels of his greatcoat and pulls him in and up. Hux does not flinch. Ren’s knuckles turn white. “It would be so easy,” Ren breathes, “to wring your neck right now. To slip inside your mind and drink your nightmares. To break you.”

With a flick of his wrist, the mono-molecular dagger up his sleeve is in the palm of his hand and he presses it into the soft spot underneath his ribs. “Careful, Ren,” he whispers. “Mono-molecular knife. You’ll be bleeding out before you even feel the cut.”

Ren lets him go with a look of disgust. “Didn’t think you were the type to get your hands dirty, General.”

“Rabid cur, Supreme Leader,” Hux says, and lets a single canine show from under his lip. “Consider what I’ve said. Think, if you know how.”

He spins on his heel and marches to the elevator. The doors close on Kylo Ren’s face– shaken, furious. And something more, something else, but the doors slide shut before he can think on it any further.

That night, he celebrates and bypasses the whiskey glass straight for the bottle.

* * *

“I’m giving him ten cycles, tops.” Sland sips her caf and looks over the top of her mug at the other officers gathered in the mess hall. “Ren’ll kriffing shred him. He’s on thin ice already.”

Dax shakes his head and takes another bite of rehydrated eggs. “Hux is tougher than he looks. I wouldn’t put it past him to hold his own just fine.”

“What do you mean?” Fairhand asks, fidgeting with their datapad. “Hux is like. . . a twig. He’s tall, but he has zero muscle mass compared to Ren.”

“This isn’t just a physical fight,” Dax says, mouth full. “This goes beyond who’s stronger. These stakes are higher than that.”

“Mitaka, you were on the _Finalizer_ with them before you transferred, right? What was it like?” Sland asks. “On a ship that size they must’ve been at each other’s throats.”

Mitaka looks rather like a deer in the headlights. “Well,” he starts, pushing his breakfast around with a fork, “they honestly weren’t that bad. Ren was off ship most of the time with his Knights and Hux was either here on the ship or meeting with planetary diplomats. The few times I’ve seen them interact they seemed civil enough. At worst they snipped at each other a lot, but it never really got physical or anything.”

“It’s Snoke’s death,” Sland says wisely. “It’s thrown the whole First Order into a spiral. No one really knows what our next moves are. A lot of our funding came from him and I know Hux and the higher-ups have been scrambling for new sources.”

Dax nods. “Ren’s been Snoke’s muscle for the past few years. He just doesn’t have the experience Hux has, and if he knows what he’s doing he’ll accept that Hux is critical to our work.”

“That won’t stop him from tossing him around, though,” Fairhand says.

“Have a little faith,” Dax says. “Hux is a tough son of a bitch. He knows what he’s doing.”

* * *

Hux has no idea what he’s doing.

He wakes up, as always, and goes through his usual routine. There is hanging over him throughout his entire day a feeling something like dread and something like anticipation, and he spends much of his morning sweep through the command bridge and terminal floor trying to puzzle it out.

He remembers as one of the officers on Eredenn Prime briefs him on the situation through holocall. He had thrown down the final gauntlet at Ren’s feet yesterday, and he hasn’t seen him for nearly an entire cycle. He can’t say he hasn’t been enjoying the quiet, but at the same time the complete lack of contact or retaliation is setting his teeth on edge. It’s unlike Ren to have this level of restraint.

A day passes with no word from him. Hux goes about his duties as usual–reviewing and editing the documents for the Eredenn Prime campaign, consulting with the ship engineers about damage repairs and the ongoing fuel crisis, doing damage control on whatever’s going on in Lothal, and in general putting out small fires as they arise.

The First Order is in no shape to be pursuing the Resistance as of now–their current galactic image alone is in desperate need of repair, and with the death of Snoke they’re left scrambling for not only funds but support. The old alien had his fingers in nearly every remnant and pocket of the Old Empire, it seemed, and he was the one who had gathered the former Imperial officials and families into the early First Order. With his death, many of the Old Empire families have backed out, and as much as Hux would love to have nothing to do with them, they were heavily reliant on their support, both financially and politically.

The Lothal campaign is crucial, therefore–it would not only give them a monopoly over starship manufacturing and a much-needed source of income, but also re-establish their image as a galactic power rather than a fringe group. It needs a delicate hand and someone who knows how to negotiate, or else the whole thing will come tumbling down.

All this is spinning through Hux’s head as he lies awake in bed at the end of the cycle. A time of transition, of chaos, when the galaxy is desperately in need of some sort of order, and here he is thinking about Kylo stars-damned Ren.

It’s been concerningly quiet–no lightsabers taken to consoles or durasteel, no new ridiculous orders, no comms, even, stars forbid Ren communicate like a normal person. It’s making him uneasy, much as he hates to admit it.

When Snoke still had control, these stretches of silence were as good as vacation to him. Ren would be off hunting down mystics or burning down temples and Hux would be on his ship, telling people what to do. Practically a dream.

Now, alone in the darkness of his quarters with Arkanisian vodka loosening his thoughts, he can admit more or less freely to himself that he misses the old days. Things were so clear. The First Order was running like a well-oiled, ever-growing machine and Kylo Ren was out of his hair for the most part and Starkiller was being built, coming together piece by piece like the most glorious, deadly puzzle he could imagine.

He closes his eyes and imagines, just for a moment, what things might be like if he were in charge. If he were on the throne instead of relegated to constantly pacing the command deck, the whole galaxy laid out in front of him for the taking. The First Order would work so well under him, the way it was meant to, the way it should be. He would tear down the system and build it up back again from nothing, with a strong military presence and a stronger central government.

And Kylo Ren at his side, instead of running madly in front of him.

The things he could do with a Force user like him. . . The entire system is half-terrified of him already just by the sheer amount of legends circulating. With an ally like that next to him, he could do more than revolutionize planetary governing. He could create a galactic government. An empire.

His dreams that night are laced with the sting of vodka and swirling with images of ferrocrete and durasteel, faceless soldiers and black capes, thick dark hair and moles like constellations of a starmap he can’t read.

The next morning he wakes up to a direct comm from a new address.

_i’m going to lothal,_ it read. Nothing else. No reason. No explanation.

Hux drags a hand over his eyes and sighs.

* * *

After an appallingly short rest cycle, Hux finds himself pacing command bridge once again, Mitaka hurrying at his side and his datapad pinging nonstop in his hand. 

“Sir, there’s a single ship unaccounted for,” says Mitaka, fingers tapping furiously at the datapad.

“Don’t tell me,” Hux grits through his teeth.

Mitaka soldiers on. “Lord Re–the Supreme Leader’s command shuttle was logged leaving the _Finalizer_ at 0400 early this cycle.”

“Fantastic,” he says. “How quickly can we make the jump to hyperspace?” he barks at a data technician hurrying by.

Dax answers for them with his customary sang-froid. “Our technicians are calculating now, but our biggest problem right now–”

“–is our lack of fuel, yes, I am aware,” Hux snaps. “If we stop to refuel at the closest allied planet, taking into account regular travel time, what is your estimate?”

Dax hesitates uncharacteristically as he runs the numbers in his head. “Five cycles, sir,” he says. “Three if we cut through unfriendly territory.”

“Set the fastest course,” he orders. The corresponding flurry of movement is balm enough to his frayed nerves, but a roiling mix of irritation and foreboding still gnaws at his stomach. The stretch of stars through the observation window calls to him and he turns his face to it. Something’s wrong here, he can feel it in his gut, but he can’t quite put a finger on it and the lack of clarity irritates him.

Without Ren on the ship it’s admittedly easier to get things done, but at the same time there’s something missing in the air. He keeps prodding at that absence in his mind like a tongue poking at a sore tooth.

They skirt through Resistance territory by the skin of their teeth. He credits the multiple narrow misses to the new cloaking technology the First Order has been test-running and the fact that, even though they may have escaped, the Resistance is severely depleted. Part of him aches to throw Ren to the wind and chase after the Resistance while they’re weak, but the other, wiser part of him knows that with Ren gone, they have no hope of outwitting other Force users.

They stop to refuel a cycle later on some no-name floating rock the First Order had rolled over during their initial sweep of the Outer Rim. They fill the hypermatter-annihilation core with as much reactant as it can take, the fuel bubbling ominously as the service droids pump it in. He alternates between watching the steady rise of the fuel levels and pacing down the halls of the _Finalizer_. He doesn’t bother trying to sleep.

The crew is spread just as thin as he is. Fairhand, when he requests an ETD, twitches so badly their hat tilts, and even pragmatic Sland’s patience is running dry. The _Finalizer_ is staffed by First Order children like him, either born on a starship or raised in one their entire life, and too long on the ground sees everyone on the ship eager to reach the void again. 

Even after barely a cycle at port, he breathes a sigh of relief when the ship’s engines begin to thrum under his feet and the familiar tug of anti-gravity strengthens. “Set a course for Lothal,” he says, and the ship springs to life around him.

Even a ship as hulking as the _Finalizer_ feels light and fleet in hyperdrive, its pointed, streamlined prow cutting smoothly through space. As they jump back towards the Outer Rim his nerves make a comeback, however, only culminating when Mitaka comms him during his rest cycle, a breach in courtesy reserved only for emergencies.

_Requesting your presence on the bridge immediately_ , it reads. _Incoming holocall from an unknown address in Lothal._

For what feels like the umpteenth time this week, Hux resigns himself to getting less than five hours of sleep and begins putting his boots back on. He can’t remember the last cycle he took the time properly prepare his uniform for the day. The blaster and dagger are, needless to say, in perfect condition.

He arrives on the bridge hoping he looks at least a bit more presentable than he feels. He blinks at Mitaka as he briefs him on the origin of the message, feeling as if someone stuffed his head with gaberwool.

“We’re tracing the signal now, but we were able to translate the message to play on our consoles,” Mitaka says, looking just as tired as he is. 

Hux nods at him and resists the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Play the message,” he says tiredly.

The bridge screen flickers with static, then as the signal tunes the image solidifies. Somewhere in the terminal pit, someone gasps. Hux leans forward, all traces of tiredness burned away.

The screen fuzzes and solidifies, fritzing with bars of static, but the image is undeniable. There is no mistaking the curve of the scar, the fall of dark hair over badly-bruised skin. A garbled voice speaks threateningly over the static as Ren’s head lolls bonelessly to the side. If it weren’t for a slit of white under his lowered eyelids, it would be sickeningly easy to believe he were dead.

“What are they saying?” Hux snaps, suddenly completely and utterly awake. “How soon can we trace this call?”

Dax begins to answer, but is cut off with the crackling sound of a stun baton pressed against unarmored skin. Hux looks away from the convulsing body on the screen and barks, “Well?”

“They appear to be speaking some dialect of Aqualish, with Basic words thrown in,” Dax says. His customary calm is visibly shaken but he pushes through. “We’ve traced the signal to the eastern quadrant of Lothal and we’re narrowing it down now–”

A technician in the pit hits a button and an auto-translation flashes on the screen.

“–twenty thousand credits in unmarked currency, delivered no more than two cycles from now,” the translator’s robotic voice reads out. “If you do not deliver, this one will be sold to the highest bidder and they will be much less kind to him than we have been.”

The audio cuts out and the video begins to loop. Hux’s stomach twists and he says quietly, “Shut it off.”

The screen goes dark and a low murmur of worry rises in the room.

It is true that Ren is more of a pain in their collective asses than any kind of help, and he has caused the First Order as much harm as help both as Snoke's apprentice and as Supreme Leader. It is also true that he is their monster as much as they are his chain, and the First Order will not stand to see one of their own so abused.

"Sir?" Mitaka ventures. His face is pale. "Your orders?" 

Hux stares ahead into the vast expanse of stars. They–whoever they are–genuinely think they can get away with this. They think that they can treat them like nothing more than some petty scavenging gang and extort them for paltry credits. They think they are a joke, and they have one of them in their grasp, and they think they will walk away from this whole.

Hux does not realize he is saying this aloud until he looks up and sees every single face on the bridge turned to him.

"Your orders?" Mitaka asks again. There is anger in his eyes at this, despite the fact that, not long ago, Ren had flung him across a room like a toy.

His lips move without even thinking.

"How are our artillery stores?"

"Full, General," Fairhand says.

"Have we traced the call?"

"Lothal's eastern quadrant, in a mining sector called Thridan,” Dax says.

"And our troops?"

"Ready to hit the ground," Sland says.

Hux feels his lips peel back, exposing his teeth. "They think they can get away with this," he says again. “They can’t–they think we’ll just roll over? That we’ll give them the credits and leave?” The familiar rush of bloodlust fills his head and he turns his back to the stars, facing the crew. “Prepare the troopers for a retrieval, and our artillery for a long-distance attack. Such blatant disrespect for the Order will not be tolerated. We will leave this sector scorched and smoking.”

He turns on his heel and leaves, barely-contained rage shaking his hands. What he wouldn’t give to have Phasma with him right now–her cold brute strength combined with his precise viciousness was what made the pair of them deadly enough to eliminate every threat that stood in their path and balance out the loose cannon that was Ren in their old triumvirate. He wouldn’t be surprised if she was still alive out there, far away from the rapidly-declining Order. She always had a knack for escaping the worst situations alive.

He wants to _hurt_ something, wants to dig his nails into some living thing and tear it to shreds. There’s no logical reason for this violent reaction but nothing about this situation is logical. That’s what maddens him the most, he thinks, greatcoat whipping against his legs as he storms through the ship halls.

Nothing about this is logical. Snoke shouldn’t have been killed on his own ship. Ren shouldn’t have been bested twice by some scavenger girl from a backwater planet then taken captive by a group of bounty hunters from another backwater planet. Ren shouldn’t be the stars-damned _Supreme Leader_ of the First Order.

 _It should be him_ , whispers some deep-buried voice in his mind. _It should be him_.

It is a mark of how mad this entire affair is that he takes that voice in stride instead of worrying for his own sanity.

His datapad pings and, needing something to look at that he can’t rip apart, he glances at it.

Sland. _ETA one cycle until Lothal. Your presence requested in conference room 2A at 1500_.

He types back a quick reply and the moment he hits send, the roaring rage fills his head again. If he is a rabid cur then let him be such.

His teeth itch for something to tear into and he turns to head towards the briefing.

* * *

“This is fucked up,” Sland says with her customary bluntness. She looks at the rest of the command waiting for the briefing to begin, and says it again: “This is fucked up.”

“How did they do this?” Mitaka asks, almost to himself. “Ren has the Force. A lightsaber. How could the Lothalians possibly manage to capture him?”

“Something about this doesn’t sound right to me.” Dax flicks absently through the files on his datapad, obviously thinking hard,

Sland snorts. “Really.”

Dax rolls his eyes. “Aside from the fact that this whole thing is a complete mess, the motives don’t add up.”

Fairhand looks up. “What do you mean?”

Dax sets down his datapad. “Well, first of all, the obvious question: how did the Lothalians pull this off? We all know Lothal’s been practically crushed under the old Galactic Empire; they have almost zero resources to pull on. Someone must be backing them in some way. Who? And if not, why would this no-name planet pick a fight with the Order? What could they possibly have to gain? And why Ren, for stars’ sake? Why not someone easier to kidnap, like one of the Old Empire families? Why would they make things harder for themselves and go after a kriffing _Force user?_ ”

Fairhand blinks at the swear, rare for Dax. “Fair enough,” they concede. “With any luck, the Supreme Leader will be able to provide us with more intel when we retrieve him.”

Sland snorts again. “ _Retrieve him_. What has the Order come to?”

“Shush,” Mitaka hisses. He nods toward the door.

Right on cue, the automated servos hiss into gear and the door slides open. General Hux himself storms through the doors, eyes red-rimmed, hands fisted behind his back, and looking like death warmed over. Sland quirks an eyebrow behind her datapad at Fairhand, who looks about as shocked at his appearance as they’ve ever looked.

“Right,” he bites out, taking a seat at the head of the table. “Let’s get on with it.”

Dax blinks and picks up his datapad again, projecting the data with a quick swipe of his fingers. A hologram of Lothal materializes in the air and zooms in on Thridan, highlighted in white. It hangs there, shedding a low grey light, and Sland stands.

“As of right now, we are scheduled to breach Lothal’s atmosphere at 0200 next cycle.. Our troops have been primed and briefed on the situation, but–”

Hux holds up a hand and Sland cuts herself off. “To what level of intelligence were they briefed?”

Thrown, she stammers for a moment before recovering herself. “They were told that the Supreme Leader requires retrieval and that they were to employ a policy of complete destruction as they see fit,” she answers.

“Nothing about the holocall?”

“Nothing, sir.”

“Good,” he mutters, then louder, “Good. I want–it would be best to avoid word of that getting out. For multiple reasons.”

She nods, eyes catching on the exhausted red veins crawling through his sclerae. “Our troops are ready to hit the ground, but I’ve asked you all here to discuss strategy. The military coup we are currently backing is still critical to securing means of production for ships and fighters, and I would advise as much caution as possible in this maneuver while still getting our point across.”

“Acknowledged,” the General says. “Fairhand?”

“I second Sland,” Fairhand says. Their stutter improves remarkably when they talk about a subject they know like the back of their hand. “The ship’s repairs are near-complete and our fuel supplies are at maximum capacity.”

“And our artillery?”

“At full capabilities, sir, but I do advise caution as well. If we mount an attack anywhere near the strength of what the _Supremacy_ had launched in its last few cycles, we’ll burn through our storage in a matter of minutes. I would also like to pull your attention to the fact that here–” they expand the hologram and tap on a dense, shimmering patch of air– “there’s a small kyber crystal mine that will, if hit, refract blaster bolts and amplify explosivity.”

“Sensitivity is needed here,” Dax says without waiting for acknowledgement to speak. “As Sland mentioned, this planet is crucial for securing ship materials and production. This campaign has the potential to both strengthen the First Order and weaken the Resistance. The small ES squadron deployed there has reported that the locals are in poor enough shape that they will welcome stability no matter where it is from. We’re close enough to overthrowing their government that I support as much delicacy in this operation as possible.”

Hux nods slowly. “Mitaka?”

Mitaka takes a deep breath and looks down at his datapad, then back up at him. “The Eredenn Prime campaign is currently at an extraordinarily precarious position. Without proper negotiations, we could lose the entire compromise. The Lothal coup is even more precarious. Speaking especially in galactic terms, if we lose even one of these campaigns, both our image and our power will weaken. I support the initiative for a show of strength, without doubt–even the slightest hint of insurrection cannot stand. However, I cannot stress enough how carefully this _must_ be handled.”

Hux nods again. “Very well. Here is what I propose.”

He stands in a swirl of gaberwool and pressed cloth and paces to the hologram. With a quick swipe on his datapad, Dax sends a scatter of five laserdots zooming towards Hux’s hand. They adhere to his fingertips and he nods curtly to Dax in thanks. “I suggest three squadrons at least, no more than five, hitting the ground around four klicks west of Thridan.” He draws a sketchy _X_ in the air over the holomap of Lothal, the dots blinking sporadically as they track his movements. “A basic prong maneuver should suffice–I don’t anticipate much military resistance at all from this planet, is that information still current?”

“Yes, their infrastructure’s been in shambles ever since the Empire fell,” says Dax.

“Good, good,” Hux says distractedly, staring at the map. “And have we traced the signal back to the specific structure they’re keeping him in?”

“He’s in what looks like an old refinery on the west side of town, heavily fortified but, of course, no match for our military power,” Sland says smugly.

“Excellent. Now if we can isolate this incident without having word of it spread, which is difficult, I am aware–”

After three hours of methodically coming up with ideas, presenting it to the group, and shooting them down, they come to something of a plan. They’ll remain faithful to the initial pronged attack, with two squadrons attacking first from the sides, then two shooting straight for the center. The troopers will be dropped closer to Thridan towards the north, taking advantage of the rocky ridge running along the outside of town for cover. The only thing left to do is attack.

As Sland leaves the room, back aching after sitting bolt-straight for too long and stomach grumbling for third meal, she looks back for a split second and sees Hux, still standing at the front of the table, staring into nothing. His hands, fisted behind his back, are clenched so hard the pink of his knuckles are bleeding into white.

She lingers a moment, silently weighing her options, then leaves quietly.

The door hisses shut behind her and she hurries to her meal.

* * *

Lothal looms in space as they approach, a sphere of grey smog, brown land, and occasional shimmering ocean blue winking through the clouds.

Hux has not slept in thirty-two hours.

He paces the halls madly, his pace too frenetically fast for the length of the bridge. His head hurts abominably. He wants this all to be over, but there’s a long day ahead.

“One hour to landing,” Mitaka tells him. He nods curtly and pauses in his rounds to look to the observation window, Lothal looming ominously against the backdrop of void.

He misses his quarters, his bed, dearly, but every time he closes his eyes he hears the crackle of a stun baton against pale skin, sees the fall of limp dark hair over closed eyes. It haunts him and he can’t pin down why. His helplessness, so at odds with the loose cannon he is. The bruises and marks marring his skin, stark and ugly against the old scars and moles. Or perhaps, most unsettlingly, the anger curling in his gut at the thought of others laying hands on him, hurting him.

Anger isn’t the right word.

Possessiveness.

He’s tired, he thinks angrily, and shoves those thoughts to a tiny, shadowed corner of his brain. He has bigger things to think about.

Sland finds him when the _Finalizer_ is close enough to send landing shuttles to the surface. “We’re ready to begin the operation,” she says. A familiar glint of bloodlust glimmers in her eyes and he wants to smile briefly, feeling the same hunger begin to rise in his guts.

“Begin flying the troopers down. Hold them on the surface until my mark,” he orders. Sland nods and marches away, her boots clicking on the durasteel floor.

He hesitates for a moment, staring at the stars instead of following her down the hall. Nothing about this situation makes sense. He knows firsthand of Ren’s powers (his hands go unbidden to his throat, bruises long-faded but the memory still sharp). There is no way that such a fighter, let alone a Force user of his magnitude, would be overpowered by a group of ragtag bounty hunters unless something out of the ordinary occured.

When he arrives at the bridge, the officers turn to look at him with carefully-hidden eagerness in their eyes. “All four squadrons are on Lothal’s surface, General,” Sland says.

Dax nods at a terminal technician and he hits a button, pulling live helmet camera feeds from the four squadron captains up on the overhead screen. At present, they all show roughly the same thing–the dry, craggy surface of Lothal, resources and greenery long since stripped from its surface under the reign of the Empire.

Half of him wants to be down on the ground with them–he still remembers the years spent at Arkanis Academy drilling and sparring in preparation for combat, and his fingers itch to wrap around the long, elegant barrel of a sniper rifle again. The more rational half of him knows his place is aboard the _Finalizer_ , far above the ground where the fighting takes place. He thinks of Ren, unbidden, the way he lays about himself with that saber seemingly indiscriminately in the heat of battle, and rolls his eyes at himself. “Are we in position?” he asks.

Sland nods. A map of Thridan appears on the lower left corner of the screen, four dots tracking the squadrons’ positions flickering on the screen, shifting slightly with every meter covered. “On your mark, General.”

He had tasted combat once before, in a small Outer Rim skirmish before he was promoted to a rank that kept him off the ground. He remembers the rush of it, the plasma-hot blaster barrel in his hands, grit and blood in his teeth.

He raises his hand, marking the tiny movements of the squadrons as they settle into position.

He remembers the adrenaline most of all, and the sheer chaotic joy of combat.

“Go.”

In a perfectly-orchestrated, smooth maneuver, the squadrons of troopers flood towards Thridan.

It is over in a matter of minutes.

“QK squad, reporting in. Eastern side secured.”

“FN squad, reporting in. Western side secured.”

“DK squad, reporting in. Town secured.”

“WC squad, reporting in. Town secured. Civilians on lockdown, no resistance encountered, and the refinery is secured. Awaiting further orders.”

Back on the _Finalizer_ he stretches his neck, rolls his shoulders, disperses the phantom prickles of battle-joy still tingling under his skin. “Right,” he says into the still, ship-filtered air. “Let’s clean this mess up.”

He brings Mitaka, Sland, and Dax on the command shuttle down to Lothal, leaving Fairhand on the bridge. There is a jolt as the shuttle breaks Lothal’s atmo, but the landing, just on the outskirts of Thridan, is smooth.

Hux, disappointingly, feels rather like he’s going to throw up.

He hasn’t been this nerves-ridden over a simple task since he was a major, planning his first large-scale military operation. It had gone fine, of course, because he’s a tactical genius and the youngest general the First Order has ever seen. There is absolutely no reason for him to feel as unsettled as he does.

He can feel even further color draining from his face as the shuttle ramp roll down. The air smells acrid, like blaster smoke and burned ferrocrete, and a hot, dry wind licks against his skin. The other three fall smoothly into line as he stalks down the ramp, greatcoat fighting against the wind.

One of the leaders of the WC squad hastens up to them and stands at attention, snapping their hand into a parade-perfect salute. “Permission to report, sir,” they bark, voice tight and staticky through the air filter.

“Granted,” he snaps. “Make it quick.”

“Acknowledged,” they say. It’s hard to gauge emotions through a helmet but they looked mildly apprehensive. “We have secured the refinery with no complications. There are no signs of hostiles, armed or not, and all civilians have been ordered to stay in their homes at the cost of their lives. Awaiting your orders, sir.”

He can hear Dax muttering something behind him and ignores him for the time being. “Have your squad tail us and clear the refinery. Comm the others to return to the _Finalizer_.”

The trooper’s armor clicks and buzzes in the heat. “Yes, sir. Is that all?”

He nods curtly. “You are dismissed, soldier.”

They leave, boots tapping out an even shuffling step over the dry dirt.

“This isn’t right,” Dax says, this time loud enough to be heard. “Where are the bounty hunters?”

“They never meant to make the trade. Obviously.” Hux begins to make his way through the burned-out shell of the town wall to where the refinery was. He had memorized the map of Thridan the night before. He couldn’t sleep anyways.

“But then why–”

“Why go through all this trouble? Search me.” He ordinarily wouldn’t be so curt, especially to another ranking officer, but little sleep, combined with the stress of having to pick up Ren like a misbehaving child and Lothal’s stifling heat makes him prickly.

Sland growls behind him. “Our troopers will hunt them down. This blatant disrespect against the Order cannot stand.”

Her words echo and resonate oddly off of the ferrocrete walls. The absolute stillness of the old refinery sets him on edge, but he keeps his face impassive.

Mitaka taps at his datapad. “The only heartbeat I’m picking up other than ours is three floors down.” He casts a quick glance at Hux. “It’s slow.”

He increases his speed. Not enough to seem eager, but enough so that the sounds of their boots click and ripple through the dark halls.

The main stairwell twists through floors like a DNA helix. Slick damp coats the stairs, and as if it wasn’t obvious enough that it had been abandoned for years, the further down they went, the more crumbling and decrepit the walls become.

“Just around the next corner,” Mitaka says, peering a bit in the dark. “Third door on the left.”

The closer they get, the more unsettled he becomes. It feels abnormally still; the air feels damp and heavy against his face. Suffocating, almost.

“Right here.” Mitaka stops in front of a door so deteriorated it nearly blended into the patchy walls. The sound of footsteps stop, replaced by ominous dripping.

Hux stops. Stares at the door. He can almost _feel_ Ren behind it, a reeling, sullen presence far different from his usual explosive violence. “I will retrieve him myself,” he says, surprising everyone (including himself). “Please return to the _Finalizer_ and have the troopers flown up. I will request a shuttle once we reach surface level again.”

Mitaka fumbles his datapad and very nearly avoids dropping it. “Sir–are you sure?” he asks anxiously. “Will you–are you sure assistance isn’t necessary?”

He cuts his eyes at him. “I can handle him,” he says quellingly. “Go make sure Fairhand isn’t shaking the ship to pieces.”

They leave soon enough after that, although Dax keeps giving him odd looks as they go back up the stairs.

Alone, he cautiously tries the door handle. The metal is so corroded fragments come away in his hand. He grits his teeth and rams it with his shoulder. It gives with surprising ease and sends him stumbling into the dark room.

Something in the shadows rustles, like cloth dragging unbearably slowly across stone. “Hux?” His voice croaks like he hasn’t tasted water in far too long.

“Ren?” He uses the faint light from his datapad to try and fumble his way through the small room. It smells like damp and old sweat, and he wrinkles his nose as he picks his way towards the back wall. “It’s disgusting in here.”

Ren is a crumpled mess of black against the dripping wall. It is shocking to see a man of Ren’s size and mass so utterly defeated. He mumbles something too quiet for Hux to hear. Hux would have ignored him anyways. Probably.

“How did this even happen?” Hux asks, crouching down next to Ren and sizing him up. “You’re the Supreme Leader and a Force user, at that. What happened?” He gives him a cursory once-over, checking for injuries, and nods. “Tell me later. I’m going to slip my arm around you and you’re going to stand and make it up three flights of stairs to the shuttle back to the _Finalizer_. I would worry about your physical condition but I am sure that you are sufficiently beef-brained enough to do it.”

He is acutely aware of the fact that he is rambling. Another unfortunate relic of his younger, less experienced days, but he can’t bring himself to stop.

Ren is abominably heavy and, in typical Ren fashion, does little to nothing to help Hux out. He is more or less deadweight, but is apparently conscious enough to huff a weak laugh as Hux staggers a little under his weight.

“Shut up,” he snaps and manages to recover his footing. “If you’re well enough to laugh at me you can give me some help. We have to climb three flights of stairs to get to the shuttle and I can’t carry you like this.”

Ren makes some small noise of protest and Hux snorts. “Use the Force,” he says dryly, and begins to walk.

Much as he grudges giving him credit, Ren holds up surprisingly well, making an attempt to get his feet under him and staggering up the stairs. Even so, at the top of the second flight his knees falter abruptly. It is all Hux can do to keep his own balance as his weight shifts on his shoulders. They end up falling unceremoniously to the hard stairs, side by side.

Ren’s skin, already pale, loses the tiny bit of color it had. He pants raggedly, pauses to swallow harshly, and gulps for air again. Hux glances at him, concerned again. “We’re over halfway there,” he says. “Can you make it?”

He nods aggressively, lank, greasy hair brushing Hux’s shoulder. “Just–give me a minute,” he says.

Hux blinks. It is the first time he has heard Ren’s voice in nearly ten cycles. It is coarse and craggy, cracked after too many days without water. “All right,” he says.

They sit in silence, near-shoulder to shoulder. Hux is running through his head all the possible ways something like this could have happened, and finding nothing. There are too many factors to consider–how Ren just left in the middle of his rest shift to a no-name planet like Lothal, how he was outmatched somehow by a band of scavengers, how once they tracked him down there was no one guarding him, but he still could not leave the basement of the refinery.

He hates it when things don't make sense. He hates Kylo Ren.

Doesn't he?

When his breathing evens out a little he asks, "Ready?"

Ren nods and levers himself to his feet, painfully slow. Hux keeps his arm around him and he feels him settle against him gratefully.

They begin climbing again, slowly.

When they reach Lothal's surface the weak sun has gone down, leaving the air chilly and dry. The moment they are out of the claustrophobic damp darkness of the refinery, Ren buckles ungracefully to the ground and sits there like a dark patch of shadow against the sand, breathing raggedly. Hux comms for the shuttle to pick them up and joins him on the ground. He will have to spend extra time the next cycle cleaning his uniform, he thinks absently.

"Mitaka tells me the shuttle will be here in a few minutes," he says, more to break the silence than anything.

Ren nods. He is shivering as the sun's heat slowly leaches from the air. He looks pathetic, surprisingly, and Hux reaches out to feel his forehead. He is clammy with sweat, but alarmingly cool. Another impulse shocks him.

He takes off his greatcoat and drapes it over the other man's shoulders.

Ren flinches a bit under the sudden weight, but as they wait for the shuttle to pick them up, his shivering gradually slows.

Hux looks at the stars but in his mind, all he can think of is the man next to him.

* * *

Surrounded by the sterile white walls of the medbay, he can't help but feel deja vu. Barely a month ago, he had been doing the exact same thing–dropping an unconscious Ren off for the med-droids to take care of him, trying to think of what to do next.

But this time, his greatcoat lies across Ren's broad shoulders and he is sitting here at his bedside instead of running the ship, waiting for Ren to wake up. He looks peaceful asleep in a way he never is awake, the anger and fear in his face smoothed away.

If an inferior officer were to find him here, like this, he would die on the spot of sheer mortification.

The med-droid rolls up to him on silenced treads. “General Hux,” it says, voice modulated to a stiff, faux-comforting tone.

He nods at it, suddenly exhausted. “Go on,” he says.

It nods its domed head and begins rattling off the diagnosis and treatments. “Supreme Leader Ren has been treated for superficial bruising and mild electrical burns consistent with stunners. After two more surface applications of bacta pads, the superficial injuries are expected to heal. He has also been treated intravenously for severe dehydration and and exhaustion, but again is expected to recover.”

“Is that it?” Hux’s brow furrows. From Ren’s state of weakness, he had assumed something far more dire. “What else?”

It could just have been him projecting, but the med-droid seemed to hesitate. “Traces of an unknown substance combined with a high-grade sedative were found in his blood. Our chemical analysts are working on it now, but from initial test results they appear to bind with and dampen midi-chlorians.”

Something in the pit of Hux’s stomach drops, quickly and unsettlingly. If these people– whoever they were– had the ability to nullify midi-chlorians, they were in bigger trouble than he had initially anticipated. “Notify me when they come to a conclusion,” he says. The droid bobs its head again and rolls away.

Upon Snoke telling him that he was to work with a Force user, years ago, Hux had conducted his own research on the Force and was forced to admit that there was a disappointing lack of resources on the topic. The Jedi were notoriously close-lipped about their practices and knowledge, and if there was any written information about the Force from the Sith, it was destroyed by the Republic long ago. Midi-chlorians, however, had come up fairly often in his scant readings.

Midi-chlorians, according to his research, are the microscopic life forms that lived within living things and most prominently within Force users. They link Force users to the Force itself, that seemingly-inexplicable power that connects all living things to the universe. 

If these no-name bounty hunters had access to Force-dampening substances, the stars only know who else do. If this gets out, the First Order’s greatest weapon could nigh-on be crippled.

Hux sits there, waiting for Kylo Ren to wake up, and dread curls up to sleep in the pit of his stomach.

* * *

He is dozing when Ren wakes with a shout. He startles awake and looks over to find the man thrashing against the sheets, chest heaving and panic in his eyes,

Hux jerks himself awake and grips Ren’s flailing hand, pulling it down to the rumpled counterpane and stilling it. “Ren,” he says sharply, then when he fails to calm himself, “Ren!”

Ren shudders abruptly and stills. “Hux– _Hux_ ,” he pants. The sheen of panic-sweat glimmers on his skin.

“I am here,” he answers. Despite himself, he is concerned for him, although his behavior is certainly no more frenetic than it usually is. “What is it?”

“I can’t feel you,” Ren gasps. “I can’t– _Hux_.”

When he thinks about it, he supposes there is almost always a nearly-imperceptible shift around him when Ren is present. Not physical, nor mental, but something in between. Now, sitting at his bedside, with him staring madly like a blind animal, that shift is nonexistent entirely.

“It’s temporary,” he says with more confidence than he feels. “Our analysts have told me midi-chlorian blockers were in the sedative you were drugged with. We expect the effects to wear off in two days at max.”

“Is this how you feel?” Ren demands, turning toward him. His hands grip and twist the sheets. “Is this how you live your life? How do you _bear_ it?”

Hux draws back, affronted. “I’m sure you’ll adapt,” he snaps, quickly withdrawing his hand. His fingers feel cold, suddenly, even inside his gloves. “Please do notify me when you wish to share some actual helpful information.”

“Hux–no– _fuck_.” Ren pulls himself upright slowly, abdominal muscles flexing painfully underneath the sheets. “God, you always storm off like that. Just let me fucking _talk_. I don’t have the ability to shuffle through your thoughts and figure out what to say.”

“The ability to–fine. Very well.” Hux doesn’t even want to think about what Ren just said.

“They didn’t–they weren’t aligned with the Resistance,” Ren says, then, “Water.”

Hux sniffs and passes him the glass. “How do you know?” he asks.

Ren takes a gulp. Water dribbles down his neck and onto his chest and Hux wrinkles his nose. “No insignias, for one,” he says. “No insignias, no second-hand gear or ships, and most importantly no sickly-sweet obnoxious mental conviction that they were doing the right goddamn thing. Therefore–” he takes another gulp–“not Resistance.”

“Do you have any idea who they might be? Any idea at all?” Hux doesn’t mean to sound abrasive, he really doesn’t, but something about Kylo Ren just seemed to absolutely fracture any semblance of self-control he might have over himself.

Ren shrugs. “Extremist group? Sith remnants? I wasn’t able to dig around in their collective psyche as much as I wanted before I was–hit, but right now I’m leaning towards an extreme anti-Order branch.”

Hux tilts his head, unimpressed. “You mean Resistance,” he drones, deadpan.

Ren twists his mouth, annoyed. Full lips glisten as he snaps back at him. “No, I mean an extreme anti-Order branch, _Hux_ ,” he snaps. “They didn’t feel like Resistance.”

“What does that _mean_?”

“They didn’t feel like–” Ren breaks off, hands fidgeting angrily with the greatcoat. “They didn’t feel like–”

_They didn’t have his mother’s touch_ , his subconscious says.

Hux nods curtly at whatever Ren stuttered and stands up. He stands up and looks down at Ren sprawled under clean white sheets. “Rest up, Ren” he says. ”You have a burgeoning empire to run and I very much dislike having to pick up your slack.”

“That’s a damn lie,” he thinks he hears Ren say as he sweeps out of the room, but he firmly tells himself he doesn’t care, no matter how right Ren might be.

He is halfway to his rooms when he realizes he’s left his greatcoat with Ren, lying across his lap.

* * *

For the second time in as many days, Hux finds himself unreasonably missing Phasma. The last time, it was for her viciousness and way with the troopers. This time, he just misses having someone _normal_ around to converse with. Stars, if he had a credit for every time he had vented to her about whatever nonsense Ren had done that cycle, he could very well buy himself an empire.

_Phasma_ , he phantom-comms to himself, pacing his rooms. _You’ll never guess what Ren did this week. He decided to go down to Lothal by himself without backup, make a fool out of himself and our Order, then leave the resulting mess to me to clean up. We found him_ , he continues, now pouring himself as stiff a drink as he can manage (which is considerable), _dehydrated, injured, and temporarily without possession of his powers._ He takes a sip of his drink and sits down heavily on his bed. He misses his greatcoat.

 _He looked pathetic, Phasma,_ he thinks. At this point, he recognizes that he’s just rambling to himself, but he keeps up the charade for appearance’s sake. _It is a little horrifying to see Kylo Ren so weak. It was unsettling, to say the least. No doubt you would have much to say about this, but._

_But._

He sighs and rubs wearily at his face. He doesn’t want to acknowledge this to himself, let alone a phantom Phasma.

 _Things are changing,_ he admits silently. The alcohol stings its way down his throat. _Without Snoke, without you, it is merely Ren and I left, and I fear we cannot run any sort of functioning empire between the two of us if things continue in this matter. It is. . . unsustainable, to say the least._

He takes another sip, only to find that the glass has run dry. Absently, he places it on the nightstand and falls back onto his bed.

 _Ren being the brawn, and I the very much overworked brain, is not ideal. We need to function better._ I _need to function better. This cannot stand._

Absentmindedly, he signs off on the nonexistent comm and rubs a hand over his face. He can’t think straight like this–over-tired from days of short sleep, over-stressed from the nonsense he’s had to put up with. Now, with alcohol pleasantly dulling his brain, he can be honest with himself.

He and Ren–their patterns of fighting and ignoring then fighting again–it isn’t efficient. Especially now, with the First Order struggling to remain a galactic power and their funds slowly slipping away, they have no time for infighting or petty bickering. Keeping this young Empire on its feet long enough for it to take root is not a one-man job, especially with Snoke dead, and neither of them alone are capable of accomplishing anything. 

Of course, there is a simple enough solution to these problems, but one Hux is loathe to consider.

If they were, for one, to work together instead of snapping at each other’s necks every two seconds, a great deal more would be accomplished.

Unfortunately, Hux is not quite drunk enough to consider why the idea of doing anything other than arguing with Kylo Ren is so abhorrent to him.

His dreams are fraught that night again. The low rumble of a voice speaking words he can’t hear, dark, heavy hair and deep brown galaxy eyes, watching him run to catch a falling star.

* * *

For once in his life, he wakes up somewhat well-rested. He gives himself leave to enjoy the rare few minutes in waking that his mind is quiet and at ease. He stretches lazily, cracking his back, and relaxes back against the smooth sheets. A smile creeps across his lips.

The datapad buzzes harshly.

Blue eyes slide shut and reopen slowly, determined not to let go of a rare good mood.

The datapad buzzes again. And again. And again, until it’s almost vibrated its way off the bedside table.

Hux begins to feel the first few shreds of his customary low-simmering rage begin to find their way back into his mind. Grudgingly, he reaches out a long-fingered hand and snags the datapad before it topples off the table altogether. 

Two reports from off-planet agents, reporting on political campaigns and negotiations in progress.

Three ship status updates that came in over his rest cycle, sent every other hour.

Five comms from other officers, giving more detail on the ship status updates.

And one direct comm from an address that had sent him only one message previously, reading nothing more than “u up?”

The quiet anger he’s accustomed to abruptly fans itself into flames and out of sheer rage he buries himself in the crisp sheets and very quietly screams a little to himself.

_‘u up’?_ he seethes quietly to himself. _What are we, twelve? Is it too difficult to use proper grammar and spelling, or did your ability to send coherent comms never pass grade school?_

Resolutely, he responds to the updates that need responding to and goes about his usual morning routine, ignoring the one notification blinking on his comm indicating a missing answer. He patiently presses and irons a clean uniform, slips the dagger into his sleeve, and goes to sling the gaberwool overcoat over his shoulders until he remembers the unfortunate current location of the coat.

Hux grits his teeth, feeling half-naked without the familiar weight of the coat over him, and types out a response to Ren’s comm. _I am,_ he types. _What do you want?_

After barely half a minute, the response pings in. _i’m in training room 4-a. come find me._

Ten seconds later, the datapad buzzes again, almost as an afterthought. _bring food too._

Hux takes a deep breath, taps in a cursory reply, and leaves his quarters.

He takes a different route than he does customarily, avoiding much of the bustle of the early-cycle command bridge. Hating himself and hating his own curiosity, he dips into the galley and grabs a tray of food for both himself and Ren, thankful that the customary rehydrated spacer food is prepared by droids instead of soldiers.

The door whirrs open and Hux marches into the training room and throws a half-stale roll of bread at Ren. Concerningly, or perhaps gratifyingly, he doesn’t catch it. It bounces off of upsettingly broad shoulders and onto the floor. Ren leans down, picks it up right off the mat, and takes a bite out of it, but Hux can’t find it in himself at the moment to pay attention to what he is doing.

Kylo Ren, distressingly, is _built_.

The harsh light of the training room slides over broad, sturdy shoulders and defined pectorals, speckled with freckles and moles he wants to map, as if they’re stars he can trace with his fingers. He is wearing nothing more than a pair of skintight black shorts, and they cling to--stars, nigh on everything. And “everything” is, admittedly, rather impressive.

Oh, this is _terrible_.

“What could possibly have possessed you to comm me at an abominable hour of the morning and bring you food like some common droid?” he snaps. He can feel red burning high on his cheeks and he speaks quickly to hide it. “What do you want that you couldn’t tell me on the bridge? Whatever it is, make it quick; I don’t trust the other officers to run this operation without me.”

Ren chews his mouthful of rehydrated bread and points with his chin to the bench lining the side of the mats. “Your coat. It’s washed and everything.”

He blinks. He didn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t that. He walks over to where the coat lies neatly folded on the bench, his boots rapping briskly over the ferrocrete, and picks it up. It looks clean, at least to his skeptical eye, and smells clean too. He unfolds it and swings it over his shoulders, not bothering to shove his arms through the sleeves.

Dark eyes watch him tweak compulsively at the way the overcoat lay until it falls just right. When Hux looks up again, Ren’s face is flushed and he breaks his gaze the moment he notices Hux meet his eyes. He can’t tell if the red is from working out, pushing himself too hard after a traumatic event, or something else. Either way, he straightens up back into position and says curtly, “You seem to be feeling better.”

Ren bristles. “I’m fine,” he says shortly. “I’m functional.”

“Why did you call me here?” Hux has a hard time believing he sent no less than three direct comms to his own private datapad just to give him his coat back. He decides to cut his losses and throw his image to the wind, sitting down on the bench and taking a bite out of his own roll. It tastes surprisingly good, especially after the sleepless, nigh-on foodless chaos the past few days were.

Ren goes quiet at that and storms off to brood. Unfortunately, them being in a training room, the furthest he could storm off to was the other side of the room. That being said, it was a matter of minutes before he storms back to Hux’s side of the room. In the meantime, Hux begins working his way slowly and methodically through the food piled high on the mess hall tray. If Kylo Ren was so adamant about him bringing food like some common droid first thing in the morning, then he might as well profit off of his own efforts as well.

As he takes a sip of caf from an insulated mug, he looks up at the young Supreme Leader. He looks especially fraught this morning, thick locks of hair sleep-tousled and chaotic, dark, grim circles under his eyes. “Hux,” he says with sleep-grit in his voice.

Hux takes a long, long sip of caf. “Yes?” he says.

Ren does not grit his teeth so much as curl up his lip, exposing clenched molars behind the soft pink of his lip. “I cannot do this alone,” he says. Every word sounds torn from his throat.

Hux sets down the mug. He does not say anything.

“Without Snoke. . .” Fear slides over his face, raw and unsettling. “My powers fluctuated when he—when the scavenger girl killed him . I thought that a new kyber crystal was what I needed—if I smelted a new lightsaber, something better, more powerful—I would be better. What was needed.”

“But?” Hux prompted. The mug lies forgotten on the bench.

“But then Lothal.” Ren cuts himself off there. They both know what happened on Lothal, at least to some extent, and what state he was reduced to after it.

“I have become weakened,” says the Supreme Leader. The words come clawing up out of his throat and barely fight their way out of his mouth. “Without Snoke’s guidance and support, the First Order has become as weakened as I am. I know a bit of the diplomacy and foreign policies necessary to run an empire, but not enough to stay afloat.”

“What are you asking me to do?” Hux speaks slowly, deliberately. He does not want to anger him or tip whatever fragile balance that had just been set. A sort of anticipation begins to thrum quietly in his veins; what he is anticipating, however, he cannot name.

“I’m asking you to work with me,” Ren says bluntly. “I need someone to handle the logistics of running a growing empire and help me finish the Resistance once and for all.”

Hux stands up and moves closer to him, slowly. “What happened to ‘long live the Supreme Leader’?” he asks quietly. “I’m not fool enough to agree to something that’ll only give you an excuse to wring my neck. What are you playing at here, Ren?”

Ren meets his eyes directly for the first time. “You heard me,” he says. “Co-commanders. With–” he swallows–“equal responsibility.”

Hux wants to sit down. No. He wants a _drink_.

“What would these equal responsibilities entail?” Hux queries.

Ren tosses his head irritatedly to the side, as if he’s tried his best not to think about the details up until that point and doesn’t wish to begin now. “Our empire is expanding as we speak,” he says shortly. “I have neither the time nor the desire to manage multiple planets and systems, as well as hunting down the last remnants of the Resistance. The responsibilities of managing an empire, especially the diplomatic and political endeavors associated thereof, will fall to you. I will retain power as Supreme Leader and you will run all decisions by me.”

Hux resists the urge to raise an eyebrow. The disparity between responsibility (and therefore work) and status stand out to him immediately, but every fiber of his being is slavering after the power being set before him. That ghost-image flashes in his mind again--a galactic order, spanning worlds, with him at the helm and Ren at his side.

“I’ll do it,” he says abruptly.

Ren’s head swings toward him. “Are you sure, General?” His voice, for once, is not mocking or antagonizing, but completely serious. “It will not be easy.”

Hux smiles at him, something feral and hungry, teeth exposing and glinting under the harsh fluorescent light. “I am sure, Supreme Leader. Our empire will be glorious.”

**Author's Note:**

> More of this to come relatively soon, I hope! Please hit me with them good good kudos and comments, they keep me sane! Scream with me about terrible space gremlins at a-flickering-soul.tumblr.com!


End file.
